


carezza

by crimsonxflowers



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“C'mon. Gimme a half hour to get rid of some of these knots of yours.” Charlie brushes his knuckles along the ridge of Meyer’s shoulder, pressing against the muscle just a little to give him a taste of what’s on offer here. “Won’t kill you to unwind a little.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	carezza

**Author's Note:**

> this one time i talked about massages-turning-into-sex and then another time i tipsily asked people to tell me what to write and here we are. unrepentant filth, set between seasons one and two. title is italian for “caress” because i am horrible at titles.

It’s a good thing Charlie’s got a key to Meyer’s flat, because judging by the way Meyer doesn’t even look up as the door shuts behind Charlie, he’d have been waiting a long time to get let in. Charlie frowns faintly, more concern than annoyance, at the distracted noise Meyer makes in response to his greeting, and, once he’s put his coat and hat down, ambles over to the little table Meyer’s got set up under the room’s one dingy window.

There’s four or five notebooks spread across the tabletop, and just looking at the pages filled to the margins with numbers makes Charlie’s head swim. But Meyer looks perfectly at home mired in ledgers, adding more and more numbers to the bunch. The mostly-empty glass next to Meyer’s elbow doesn’t escape Charlie’s notice either, though judging by the hunch of Meyer’s shoulders over his work, it hasn’t done much to lighten his load.

Charlie drapes himself over the back of the chair, chin resting on the top of Meyer’s head. He doesn’t have a view of Meyer’s face, but the way his fingers clench around his pencil and the barely-audible sigh he lets out make Charlie grin. “Can I help you with something?” Meyer’s voice drifts upward, and it’s rusty from disuse—more than Charlie was expecting. He’s definitely pulling Meyer away from the books now.

“You can take a break from all those numbers, maybe,” Charlie says, and he’s expecting the louder sigh this time. He moves to stand next to Meyer’s chair, leaning a hip against the table and brushing his fingertips along the nape of Meyer’s neck. “You’ve barely even moved since I been here.“ Meyer stays silent, the scratch of his pencil against paper the only sound in the tiny room until Charlie speaks up again. “Mey, you’re wound so tight it hurts to look at you.”

“Then quit looking,” Meyer snipes back, still not even looking up from the numbers he’s scratching into the page. He relents pretty quickly, though, just barely leaning back into Charlie’s touch and glancing up a little guiltily. “These have to get done, Charlie. AR’s expecting the numbers from the Astor game tomorrow, you know how he gets.”

Charlie doesn’t, actually, not about this sort of thing, anyway; the things AR expects out of him don’t usually run in the bookkeeping direction. But keeping AR’s mood up isn’t worth the harried look in Meyer’s eyes. “C'mon. Gimme a half hour to get rid of some of these knots of yours.” He brushes his knuckles along the ridge of Meyer’s shoulder, pressing against the muscle just a little to give him a taste of what’s on offer here. “Won’t kill you to unwind a little.”

Meyer finally puts his pencil down, and Charlie tries not to grin too wide. “You’re not going to let it go without a fight, are you?” Meyer asks as he looks up at Charlie, the small curl to his lips soothing the bite of the words. It helps, too, that Charlie doesn’t even have to answer before Meyer’s pushing back in his chair and letting Charlie tug him into the bedroom. He’s not especially practiced at this kind of thing, to say the least, but he’ll give it a shot if it means giving Meyer a break—not to mention getting Meyer to himself for a little bit.

He sits heavily on Meyer’s bed and scoots backwards until there’s enough space for Meyer to sit in front of him, determinedly ignoring Meyer’s raised eyebrow. After a moment or two of expectant staring, Meyer sighs (fondly, Charlie’d like to think) and sits between the vee of Charlie’s thighs. Charlie can’t help but make a satisfied sound in his throat when he does, pleased at Meyer going along with his scheme so easily.

He runs his palms up Meyer’s back, keeping his touch light for now. It’s like fondling a brick wall. “Jesus christ, do you ever relax?” he mutters under his breath, pressing the heel of his palms against Meyer’s shoulder blades.

“No,” Meyer says shortly. He presses back against Charlie’s hands, and even that feels belligerent. Charlie thumps him lightly on the shoulder with his fist.

“Don’t push, asshole, I’m doin’ you a favor,” he growls, and Meyer snorts.

“I seem to recall you insisting on this, not me,” he shoots back, shoving his elbow into Charlie’s side as payback. But he subsides, sitting up straight enough that Charlie’s pretty sure he’s still just being stubborn.

He picks up where he left off, pushing his palms against Meyer’s shoulderblades again, before sweeping his hands up to press his fingertips into Meyer’s upper back muscles. It’s slow going, but he can feel Meyer’s tension slipping away in tiny increments, which is good enough for Charlie.

The sensible thing to do seems to move upwards, then make his way back down, so that’s what he does, until he hits a spot at the base of Meyer’s neck that’s even more tense than the rest of him. Determined, Charlie digs his thumbs in around the knot, and he can feel the muscle loosen under his fingertips—

And Meyer _moans_.

It’s quiet (what about Meyer isn’t?) but unmistakeable, and they both freeze for a second. Meyer’s shoulders are starting to tighten up again and that’s the exact opposite of the point of all this, so Charlie swallows hard and smooths his palms across the planes of Meyer’s shoulders again, for all intents and purposes continuing as if it hadn’t happened.

Except for how he _really_ wants to get Meyer to make that noise again.

Charlie drags his thumbs up either side of Meyer’s spine until he hits his hairline, and he swallows hard at the way Meyer’s head tips forward and the faint noise that catches the edge of Meyer’s exhale. The tension that had restrung itself across Meyer’s shoulders drains away under Charlie’s fingertips, so he licks his lips and tries to stay focused on what he’s supposed to be doing. This was his idea, and he’s gonna see it through. Even if he’s gotta inch further back as subtly as he can manage so Meyer can’t tell he’s getting harder with every little noise that spills out of his mouth.

It’s mostly just quiet sighs and satisfied hums; with each knot Charlie works out of Meyer’s back, Meyer stops holding himself so straight and leans back a little more into Charlie’s hands, and Charlie can’t remember the last time Meyer was this unrestrained. It’s a nice change, and it’s satisfying to know it’s because of him, because of what he’s taking the time to do for Meyer.

His fingertips catch on another knot, and it’s more than a sigh or hum when Charlie presses against it. Meyer groans, though it’s muffled, like he’s biting his lip to keep it from spilling out. Charlie freezes again, for a second or two, because he didn’t really think of it but maybe… “Tell me if I’m doin’ it too hard or somethin’, alright?” he blurts out, and he waits for Meyer to shake his head before he does anything else.

“It was fine, it—” and Meyer cuts himself off, shakes his head again. He tilts his head a few degrees, not enough to meet Charlie’s eye but enough that Charlie can see the flush starting to stain his face. “You can keep going,” the words are quiet, more hesitant than Charlie’s expecting, and it makes something twist in his gut. “If you want.”

He can’t stop himself from leaning forward just a little so he can press his lips against the nape of Meyer’s neck, just once. It’s supposed to be reassurance, because Meyer never asks for anything, never admits when he wants something, never lets himself have anything that’s not the bare minimum.

Charlie just wants to give him everything.

He doesn’t pay attention to the way Meyer’s breath catches, and doesn’t give in to the urge to crush his face to Meyer’s neck and _really_ give him a reason to gasp. Instead he presses his fingertips into the small of Meyer’s back and massages away the tension there too, distantly pleased at the way Meyer’s posture has slackened from ramrod straight to leaning against Charlie’s hands. He’d be proud of his resolve if he wasn’t too busy trying not to shift at every noise Meyer makes.

And then Meyer’s palm curls around Charlie’s knee, and even though Charlie’s had his hands on him for the last twenty minutes it sends a bolt of heat up his spine. And given the way Meyer slides his hand back, past his own side, up to the middle of Charlie’s thigh, it’s not a mistake. Given Meyer’s pleased hum at Charlie leaning forward with a groan and pressing his face to Meyer’s shoulder, it’s not a mistake at all.

Meyer hasn’t even done anything, but after what feels like an infinity of listening to him, the pressure of his grip, and knowing there’s intent behind it, is enough to drive Charlie a little bit crazy. “Thought you wanted to get back to work,” Charlie murmurs against Meyer’s shoulder once he can string the words together, stroking his hands up and down along Meyer’s side. He doesn’t want to push, but god, the way Meyer _sounds_ …

“It can wait,” Meyer gasps, and Charlie can’t stop the way his fingers clutch tighter at Meyer’s hips, any more than he can stop the harsh exhale that escapes him. “Charlie, fuck,” Meyer bites out, and he starts to twist around.

“Wait, just—” the words are out of Charlie’s mouth before he really thinks about it, and he tugs Meyer back against his chest, his hands tight on the dip of Meyer’s waist. They both bite down on groans as Meyer presses back against Charlie’s cock, and Charlie nuzzles at the skin beneath Meyer’s ear, trying not to pant like a teenager. “Stay like this, okay?” He feels Meyer nod more than he sees it, the fabric of his slacks bunching between Meyer’s fingers as his grip tightens.

Charlie slides his hands around to Meyer’s front, hooking his chin over Meyer’s shoulder as he undoes the top few buttons of his shirt. He glances down, but ignores (as much as he can, anyway) the swell of Meyer’s cock beneath his fly for now. Instead he tugs the shirt’s collar aside enough that he can press his lips to the spot where Meyer’s neck and shoulder meet, and untucks the tails of Meyer’s shirt enough to finally get his hands on skin. Meyer tips his head back against Charlie’s shoulder as Charlie skates his palms across Meyer’s stomach.

“Charlie, c'mon,” Meyer sighs, and Charlie drops a kiss against the bit of Meyer’s cheek that he can reach without jostling him.

“Why the rush?” He moves his mouth along Meyer’s skin, presses teeth to the side of Meyer’s throat when Meyer obligingly tilts his head to the side, sucking until Meyer’s panting outright and he’s fairly sure there’ll be a mark in the morning. “I told you t'relax, didn’t I?” The arm around Meyer’s waist tightens, pulling him even more snug against Charlie’s chest as his other palm slides down, barely skimming over Meyer’s hip to stroke his fingertips along Meyer’s thigh. See how much Meyer likes being strung along.

Meyer’s frustrated little huff is music to Charlie’s ears, and he grins against Meyer’s neck. His fingers trail along the inner seam of Meyer’s slacks, pressing light circles into the muscle, same as before. Meyer hums wordlessly and spreads his legs wider, knees knocking against Charlie’s calves, and the grin drops off Charlie’s face, lost in a moan as Meyer presses back against him.

He can’t help but rock his hips against Meyer’s ass, but it’s hardly his main focus as he quits teasing and cups Meyer’s cock. The awkward angle doesn’t keep Meyer from twisting enough to press his face against Charlie’s neck as he whimpers, hips arching into Charlie’s touch.

Charlie strokes him through the fabric—it’s not especially coordinated or anything, but if the quiet moans coming from Meyer are any indication, he doesn’t mind much. He nudges his cheek against Meyer’s until he can press their lips together, and he swallows the noises Meyer makes against his mouth like they’re oxygen and he’s been suffocating his whole life. His other hand traces along Meyer’s stomach, tracing light circles into his skin. He tries to take it slow, tries to make it last, to keep Meyer on the edge for as long as he can. It’s not long, though, before it’s not enough—for either of them—and Charlie frantically undoes the buttons of Meyer’s fly to touch bare skin.

He doesn’t even bother teasing Meyer any more; he’s not as good at drawing things out as Meyer is, too impatient to see Meyer come. Charlie wraps his fingers around Meyer’s length, palm slick with precome in a matter of seconds, and moves his hand in short quick strokes. Meyer moans, his eyes screwed shut, and Charlie can’t help but grind against him.

He tucks his face against Meyer’s neck, pressing open mouthed kisses against his skin as he swipes his thumb over the head of Meyer’s cock. “Fuck, you sound amazing, Mey,” he says between kisses, and Meyer bites his lip, like he’s embarrassed about being heard. It doesn’t stop the whimper that spills out when Charlie twists his wrist, and Charlie doesn’t disguise the way it makes him shudder against Meyer’s back. “I been hard since I got my hands on you. Since the first sound you made,” he admits, too far gone to be self-conscious about it now, and it’s worth it for the noise Meyer makes in response. “Could listen to you for days.”

Meyer gasps his name and shifts his hips back against Charlie hard enough to make him groan, and he bites another mark into Meyer’s shoulder. Meyer’s free hand reaches up to tangle in Charlie’s curls despite the angle. “Charlie, I’m gonna—” Meyer cuts himself off, swallowing hard, his fingers digging into Charlie’s thigh hard enough to hurt. Charlie doesn’t give a shit, just tightens his arm around Meyer’s waist as he rocks his hips in time with the stroke of his hand.

“Yeah, fuck, c'mon, I wanna see you,” he slurs the words against Meyer’s temple, and that’s it, Meyer’s gone, his hips bucking up as he spills over Charlie’s fist with a whine. Charlie tucks his face against Meyer’s shoulder and rocks his hips against him in tight circles, and it’s only a few thrusts before he’s following Meyer over the edge, coming in his pants like he’s fifteen, not twenty three.

They stay curled against each other as their breathing slows, and Charlie lazily presses his lips against Meyer’s shoulder as he does what he can to tidy up; there’s not anything he can do about his own mess right now, and he grimaces at the uncomfortable dampness, but he gets Meyer straightened out at least. Meyer’s aggrieved little murmur means Charlie wiping his hand off on the fabric of Meyer’s underwear didn’t go unnoticed, but he turns around in Charlie’s arms and kisses him anyway. That’s good enough for Charlie, and he hums quietly against Meyer’s mouth when he nips at Charlie’s bottom lip in retribution.

“Alright?” Charlie asks, when Meyer pulls back an inch or two, and even Charlie isn’t totally sure what he’s asking about—the massage, the sex, keeping Meyer away from his work for so long, all of it maybe. It doesn’t matter though because the corners of Meyer’s mouth pull up, tired but satisfied, and he leans in for another kiss, which is answer enough.


End file.
